


occupation: brat drabbles

by alisdas



Series: occupation: brat [7]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fluff, Older Man/Younger Woman, Parental Abuse, Past Abuse, Smut, Some angst, Trauma, Triggers, being boujee to cope, brat behaviour, brat!reader, some mentions of: - Freeform, yes steve is a daddy what about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: drabbles taken from my tumblr about my series occupation: brat! smut, fluff, and angst.
Relationships: Captain America/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Series: occupation: brat [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1426609
Comments: 12
Kudos: 190





	1. lesson 1

**Author's Note:**

> can also be found on my tumblr venusbarnes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lesson #1: even when he tries to be stern, you’ll win in the end.

He doesn’t know why he buys it, really. You’ve got enough money of your own – and, of course, enough jewellery to make the Queen of England jealous. But when he passes the high-end jewellers and sees the sign for custom made necklaces he can’t help himself.

 _Brat_ , it reads in cursive. Perfectly fitting of his perfect little girl. You squeal in delight when you open the tiny box it comes in, practically bouncing on the spot and demanding that he clasps it around your neck immediately. Nevermind that you’re in the bath. Nevermind that you’ll probably have to take it off to sleep anyway.

It settles just over your collarbone and glistens on your wet skin. You twist it this way and that, chin pressed downwards to catch a glimpse of it – and then you beam, all teeth and shining cheeks and bath bubbles on your nose. “Thanks, Stevie.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” he murmurs; presses his cap down further bashfully and pretends that your knee peeking out of the water isn’t making his pants tighter. “Looks good on you.”

“Everything does, doesn’t it?” You tease. As if you know where his mind’s at – and you probably do, he won’t assume otherwise – you lift your leg from the water. Iridescent bubbles slip and slide down your legs, the scent of sweet vanilla and strawberry heavy in the air. You coo then, fiddling with the necklace as you peer up at him. “Will you join me, Stevie?”

He’s just gotten back from his city outing. He’s slightly sweaty and his hair hasn’t been washed in a few days but the way you’re looking at him now makes him think that washing is the last thing on your brain. And he’s pretty sure he’s due for a briefing in less than an hour and Tony’s been on his back about being alone with you in your room.

You tilt your head and rest your chin on the bath’s edge, lips pursing thoughtfully. That look in your eyes – the mischief and the calculating way that you trail your gaze up his body – has been seen once before and it was right before you called him Captain in bed.

“Bath water’s gonna get cold,” you sigh. “In or out, daddy?”

He freezes. Joints lock and shoulders stiffen and his brain shorts out in confusion.

 _Daddy_?

Girls used to call their fellas that back in the day, sure, but he was well aware that the context had changed over the course of 70 years. Mainly from Sam making jokes about it and Tony being a lewd motherfu–

“I guess not then–” And you stand, expression pulled into one of disappoint. But you don’t get far, because his hand finds its place on your neck and pulls you forward so suddenly that you have to steady yourself on his forearms, wet hands dripping water down his skin.

“Say that again, I dare you.”

And oh, you like that. Your entire body shivers and you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes alight with trouble.

“Did I say something wrong, daddy?”

Fucking shit. His pants are uncomfortably tight. Who knew that was a thing for him?

(He did. He knew it was a thing for him.)

“You’re a fucking brat,” he exhales, one hand trailing down your body – tugging a nipple roughly as he passes and revelling in the delighted yelp that follows.

“I know,” you quip, grinning. “I take my title very seriously.”

But your fire – your cockiness, the innocent tilts of your head – is all but gone the second his fingers find your little clit between your legs.

“Still wanna mouth back?” He asks, raising a brow. He releases his grip on your throat just the slightest bit when your chest starts heaving, hips grinding slowly against thumb.

“You love it when I mouth back,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

(He does.)

“Oh – ngh, just – just a little more, daddy, Stevie–”

His thumb speeds up. Your hands tighten around his forearm, your head pressed against cool tile behind you – you can’t even moan now, just pant and gasp and shudder desperately as he draws you closer and closer to the edge–

And then he stops. You cry out in outrage, eyes flying open.

“I’m not sure,” he tsks. “Good girls get to cum. You haven’t been very good.”

(Your eyes widen. You hadn’t thought he’d slip so easily into this.)

“W–what? I’ve been good. I’ve been better than good!”

He’s going to fuck you. That’s set in stone. He doesn’t think he could’ve come into this bathroom while you were in this mood and ended up doing anything else. But it’s fun to drag it out, because for all your brattiness you really just want him.

“Maybe if you beg, I’ll think about it.”

He turns his back to you and begins pulling his t-shirt over his head. Silence follows, and he turns his head slightly. “I don’t hear begging.”

There’s a sharp splash of water – you just stomped your foot, of course you did – but as his t-shirt hits the floor you roll your eyes and pout and, for your own good, swallow your pride.

“Please, Stevie.”

“Don’t call me Stevie. You brought this on yourself.”

Another exasperated sigh. “… Please, daddy. I promise I’ll be good.”

He only hums, tugging down his trousers and briefs and letting it join the pile of his socks and t-shirt. You grumble again. “What else do you want me to say?!”

He turns, then, and watches as you immediately become distracted with the hardness between his legs. “Kneel down and apologise.”

Your eyes narrow and your arms fold. “I’m not apologising.”

“Either you apologise or you don’t get to cum.”

“You can’t tell me when I can and can’t cum,” you retort, snarky. “I can do whatever I want.”

I can do whatever I want. And yet, when his eyebrows raise and he tilts his chin in that disappointed way, you find yourself cursing to yourself and dropping to your knees, bathwater gathering around your waist.

“I’m sorry,” you huff. “For being a brat and mouthing off and being bad… Or whatever.”

It’s the closest he’ll get to a sincere apology, so he’ll take it. He grasps your chin and leans in, kissing your nose affectionately. “Good girl.”

While you practically preen from his praise he climbs into the bath beside you, glad for Tony’s insistence on large baths on the residential floors.

You clamber onto his lap seconds later when he tugs at your necklace, kisses sloppy and wet and slow. You grind against his lap almost instantly, whimpering into his mouth.

So sweet. His sweet girl.

He picks you up easily and settles you on your knees before him – presses a large hand against your shoulders until you yield and bend over, grasping the edge. You’re slick and sticky between your legs, and from the coo you give when presses a finger in, ready to take him.

He pushes into you.

(And you’ll have to excuse him for the lack of description, really, but there’s no word in the English language to describe how fucking nice you feel. Tight and wet, yes, but there’s something else. He has a feeling that it’s just you.)

The pace isn’t particularly breakneck, but the water at his hips slaps and laps at the bath’s sides and echoes throughout the room, some managing to slip over the side and soak the floor – which you notice and gasp over, but you’re quickly distracted again.

He can tell when you get close. You begin to tremble around him, begin to fidget and twist and turn. In this position, where you’re barely able to move your legs, he imagines it must be pleasurable torture. You just have to lie there and take him – and it must be especially torturing when he refuses to reach around and roll your little pearl between his fingers. You like it better when he does it – obvious, when after 10 minutes of frantically rubbing at yourself, you’re still teetering on the edge of pleasure.

“Please, please, please,” you whimper. Your fingers flex and unflex around the bath’s rim, breathing fogging up the polished marble with each exhale. “Please, daddy, I need you – Stevie, c'mon–”

Poor little girl, he thinks idly. Acts a brat but can’t handle being treated like one. You’d be in much more trouble if he was sterner. But he can’t be – not with you. Maybe that’s why you were so damned bratty.

“You need me?” He grunts, eyes fixated to the jiggle of your ass against his pelvis, the glinting gold around your neck. His. “Thought I couldn’t tell you when you can and can’t cum?”

“I – fuck – I didn’t mean it, Steve, I didn’t, honest–”

He wasn’t going to leave you unsatisfied anyway. But it is nice to hear you beg. His fingers slip under the water and find your clit like muscle memory. There’s no grace to the way he rubs at you – just pure, unbridled need to feel you squeeze and spasm around him, to hear that one little shocked gasp that you always make when you cum hard.

And you do, of course. You gasp that little gasp of yours and have only the strength to get out a fuck, Stevie; press your head against the bath’s edge and take it, warm and wet as you contract and shake around him.

“God, I love you,” he laughs breathlessly, folding over your back like a second skin as he chases his own end. “I’m gonna cum, princess. Take it all – fuck, take it all…”

He grunts, low and animalistic in your ear when he cums. Your whole body is jerked forward with the force of his thrusts, pussy squeezing once more at the feeling of him painting your insides.

A few minutes pass in serene, fluffy silence.

“Oh god, Stevie.” You’re the first to break the silence, panting into the heated, stuffy air. You reach a hand behind you and vaguely brush at his chest, your fingers brushing leisurely against the smattering of hair there, still squeezing unconsciously around him. “Jesus Christ.”

“You did good, sweetheart. Always do.”

His fingers drift up and down your back, rubbing bubbles against your spine and shoulders as he pulls out of you. You’re so pliable and warm and satiated that when he grasps your hips and sits you on his lap again, grasping your jaw and pulling your face up to kiss him, you don’t even whine, just let him love on you, gentle and soft. He separates from your lips momentarily, tugs on the chain around your neck–

“Really does suit you.”

“Mm… thanks, Stevie. I love it.”

“C'mon, we gotta get outta here. Bathwater’s dirty.”

“Just a few more minutes?” Steve remembers somewhere in the back of his mind a reminder to be more firm with you. But you’re nuzzling your cheek against his shoulder and pressed flush against him, warm and happy.

“… Few more minutes.”

(“… You know I love when you mouth off, right?”

“I know, Stevie.”

“Just making sure.”

“It was fun.” How you manage to smile so wickedly at him with your face smushed up against his chest, he’ll never know. “I like when you get all stern. It’s cute.”

And he’s sure, glancing at the necklace around your neck, that there’ll be plenty of reason for him to get all stern in the future.)


	2. pass the salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked: someone make brat!reader exposing daddy!steve to the team an imagine/blurb pls i need to see the hysterics more in depth

The team – after the fiasco that was your relationship’s reveal – settles into the groove of things after a while. Sam still fake-pukes when Steve kisses your cheek and Natasha still warns Steve to keep his hands where she can see them when you’re cuddling on the couch, but things have generally reverted back to normal. And – to your relief – nobody had made a big deal out of it when you started calling Tony _dad_.

(Except Tony, that is, who has never _not_ made a big deal out of anything in his life.)

You don’t know exactly when it happened. After telling him that you felt like he was the father you never really actually had he’d taken up the mantle fully, but you hadn’t had the nerve to fully call him _dad_. Until you did, of course, and nobody had said anything. Pepper had glassy eyes and Sam looked like the human embodiment of Surprised Pikachu but other than that, everything was going smoothly.

Until, of course, everyone had gathered for a team potluck on a Friday night. Well, you say potluck, but really it was just Sam bringing the entire meal and Wanda making dessert, because Clint apparently _has no culinary skills_ , Natasha _was busy sharpening her knives_ , Bucky _is a senior citizen_ , and Vision _doesn’t eat, so he doesn’t cook._ Every one of your teammates is a liar, you’ve come to realise.

You’re chewing on a piece of Mac n’ Cheese when the ball drops.

“Daddy, pass the salt?”

A tale as old as time.

Tony and Steve both reach for the salt shaker.

And it’s painful, really. Kill Bill sirens going off in the background, Tony staring wide-eyed at the table in front of him, Sam choking and hacking on a piece of chicken. Bucky has gone stock still. Clint’s drink was spit back into his cup – Wanda’s trying so _fucking_ hard not to laugh and failing miserably, and Vision, bless him, has no clue what’s going on.

Bruce’s lips are but a thin line, wide eyes flickering unsurely between Tony and you and Steve and Sam because _Jesus Christ, Sam, are you genuinely choking?_

Yes. Yes, he is.

With flushed cheeks you glance up at your super-soldier boyfriend, and clearly, he’s just as embarrassed as you are. He’s _literally_ a tomato, his hand still frozen over the unassuming salt shaker, and for a moment you genuinely think you’re going to die. The floor is going to open and you are going to be put out of your misery–

Tony has reached the final stage of grief; acceptance, albeit hesitant and slightly disgusted. He clears his throat and pushes out his chair, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. _Fatherhood really takes a toll on you, huh?_

“I’m going to get another drink,” he says steadily, peering around the table. “And when I get back, we’re going to pretend that that never happened.”

“Agreed,” is chorused back unanimously.


	3. eat the rich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompts: 23. “I saw on your Amazon wishlist you wanted a dildo. You know I got a dick, right?” + 15. “My dick isn’t that big, you can handle it.”

You don’t actually know exactly why you have an Amazon wishlist. You think it was from that one time where you wanted to pace your spending and buy stuff _only_ when you accomplished something – which in hindsight was probably a bad idea, because what were you supposed to do when you’ve limited your coping mechanism? 

Sigh. Life is so _hard_. 

Point is: you haven’t actually _looked_ at it in, like, two years. You actually forgot it existed because yeah, you may have Amazon on your phone but that doesn’t mean you _use_ it.

(It’s a contingency plan, right? If you can’t get quick shipping elsewhere you’ll get it on Amazon.)

Imagine your surprise when Steve, laying with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed – looking as dead as a doorknob, really – suddenly speaks: “ **I saw on your Amazon wishlist you wanted a dildo. You know I… got a dick, right**?”

You almost _choke_. When did your Stevie get so _vulgar_?

“Excuse me?” You say, setting your phone down beside you. You clamber over to him with some effort, throwing a leg over his lap and settling into your favourite seat. “First of all, _sir,_ you better watch your language. You’re such a bad influence on me–!" 

"Oh, please,” he scoffs, incredulous. But he readjusts his hands onto your hips and shifts further up on the bed so that he’s sitting up. “As if, you little _brat–_ " 

"Second of all,” you interrupt loudly, “You’re not here all the time, you know. I get lonely when you’re not on missions – a girl’s got _needs,_ you know.”

“Needs?" 

"That’s what I– _oh_.” Steve begins to rock his hips up, the grip on your hips pressing you down against him and you realise that maybe _you_ are the bad influence. First the cursing, now this? “You play a dirty game, you – you _hoodlum_." 

"That the best you can do?” He sounds so damned _smug_. 

“Just for that, I’m gonna buy two dildos,” you say, but your eyes flutter shut and your own hips begin to move in tandem, voice quickly growing breathless with each roll of his damned hips. “T-three, actually.”

He hums low in his throat, and you know damn well that if you open your eyes he’ll be looking as smug as a white U.S. senator. 

“And I want you to – to know,” you continue resolutely, stubborn, “that I am in _complete_ and utter control right now.”

“Sure you are.” Another sharp drag against him that makes your nails scrape against his t-shirt covered chest. “Tell yourself somethin’ enough times and you’ll start believing it.”

“Four. I swear to God, _four_ dildos, Steve – _eep_!" 

Faster than you can comprehend, Steve’s risen to his knees and pushed you onto your back, elbows by either side of your face and lips suddenly on your neck, beard scratchy against your skin. At this point you both know you’re joking, but it’s fun, so who cares? 

"You know I’m better than a piece of plastic, sweetheart.”

“Do I?” You bait, voice blasé. “I dunno, old man. There’ve been a good few technological advances in the past 70 or so years…”

He rises up, then – shoots you an amused, unimpressed look that says _I know what you’re doing but I’m playing into it anyway._ You almost abandon your teasing for a second, sorely missing the weight of him against you. Your panties are clinging to you underneath your lounge shorts, and you have no doubt that if you look they’ll be wet and sticky. 

They are – that much is obvious when Steve peels off your shorts and then that blasted underwear, groaning low in his throat at the silvery, thin strings of wetness that connect you and the piece of fabric. The underwear goes flying over his shoulder, and he affords you only one, thick lick up the length of your pussy before he pulls his cock out of his trousers and begins to press it into you. 

You’ve never had him so quickly – he was always so sure to stretch you on his fingers first, to make sure you’d be used to some size before you took him. But this is different – not painful, you’re wet enough that he slides in with little to no pain, but the pressure stings in the most pleasurable way. You’re keening before he’s even halfway in. 

“W-wait, wait,” you gasp, reaching under your legs to grab at his hips. “God, Stevie, that’s too good – fuck–”

Your captain grips your hips, bows his head to kiss your nose. **“My dick isn’t that big, you can handle it.”**

And handle it you do.


	4. midnight snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompts: 50. “There’s not enough makeup in the world to cover up this hickey, what did you do to me?” 14. “I am your daddy.” 5. "Look at me. Now.“

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that your temper is as explosive as a black market firework, and twice as unpredictable. Around him, you usually toe the line between calm and teasing, making snarky remarks when they’re called for and snuggling up to him like a puppy. 

This is not calm _or_ teasing. 

You’re jealous, he’ll say it outright because he knows you better than you know yourself sometimes. He flirted with some doctor lady to secure some intelligence; danced with her a while, chuckled at her jokes, asked her about her job. All the while you and Natasha had been listening in his earpiece, having to sit through a whole hour of her purring _captain_ and cozying up to him. 

He won’t say he doesn’t understand because his own jealousy is what got you both into this in the first place but there’s a _difference_. You _know_ this is for a job, know that at the end of the day you’ll slip into his bed and he’ll hold you and you’re _his_. Steve hadn’t had the luxury when you’d been canoodling the Marchand boy. 

Worse, still, you won’t admit it. And he’s getting _annoyed_ ; feels himself slip easily into that assured, commanding persona that you yearned for at times. 

It’s an hour after dinner and almost everyone’s dispersed into the city somewhere. Except Tony, of course, who’s slumping around his lab upstairs, and Steve, who’s standing opposite you with his arms folded and his face calculating. You’ve been sitting on the kitchen counter with your eyes trained on your phone for almost 30 minutes. 

“Get down,” Steve says – _orders_ – chewing on the inside of his cheek in that unimpressed way of his. Your eyes widen for a second because Steve doesn’t tend to order you unless it’s in bed and he’s gotten into his daddy persona and– _oh_. 

“I don’t wanna.”

“_____, get down.”

Your eyes stay focused on your Instagram feed. “You’re not my dad.”

“No, I’m not.” Steve pushes himself away from the counter and stands in front of you, sighing harshly. “But **I _am_** **your daddy** , huh? At least sometimes. And I love you a lot. So get down, so I can show you how much.“ 

He sees your eyes narrow. Your bottom lip peeks out from below the top in a pout – and he knows that face well. The face of a girl who doesn’t want to do as she’s asked, who doesn’t want to forgive just _yet_ , the face of a girl that will whine to get her way. 

That’s okay. He’s got time. 

And you know that too – maybe that’s why you breathe out his name so softly when he sets his sights on your neck, hair tickling sensitive skin and lips following suit. Instinctively your hands abandon your phone and curl up to rest in his hair – hesitant, like you want him to know you’re still mad at him, but even so he can hear your heartbeat thudding along as he sucks and nibbles. 

He doesn’t know how long you stayed like that, if he’s being honest. With the goal of marking you up in mind, he simply bent his head and went to work. The taste of you is sweet and salty on his tongue, perfume strong and girly in his nose. Just the thought of you, neck bruised and speckled with purple and red, makes him exhale deeply. 

When he finally lifts his head he sees the product of his hard work – splotchy red skin that would eventually develop further. Nice surprise for later, huh?

You open your eyes, slumped against the cupboards behind you and breathing laboured. Looks like you enjoyed it as much as he did. 

"Ready to talk or not?” He asks, but he already knows your answer. He grasps your thighs with two big hands and spreads your legs to accommodate him, standing between them with an expectant look on his hard face. 

You fold your arms and tilt your chin up and away from him. 

“Alright then.” He hopes, vaguely, that no-one finds themself wanting a midnight snack suddenly. Because he’s about to have his. 

He drops to his knees and pushes up your skirt with no hesitation – doesn’t even bother taking off your panties, just pushes them to the side before he leans in and _licks_. 

And the reaction is instantaneous. Your hips shift lower on the counter, arm slumping beside you and eyes just _shutting_ , your mouth opened in that adorable little _o_ shape that makes him grin to himself. He gathers your juices on his tongue, all tangy and sticky, draws them up and down your labia before focusing on your clit. He pulls back the hood with his thumb, mouth practically watering at the sight of the pink little nub, before he draws it into his mouth and _sucks_. 

You keen immediately, gasping unevenly at the steady suction of his lips around you. He doesn’t have to look up to know you’re scrambling for purchase – but at the broken, whining moan that leaves your lips, he’s taken aback by the sudden heave of possessiveness that turns his stomach. 

How could you think that he’d even pick someone else over you? He can’t wrap his brain around it. You’re his anchor to the modern world, his baby, his sweetheart. Everything.

“ **Look at me. _Now_**.” His breathing is so ragged that he surprises himself momentarily, but he supposes that’s the consequence of eating someone out so _ferociously_. You do as he’s asked, either way, half-lidded eyes meeting his from above, all dazed and blown out. His thumb takes the place of his tongue so he can properly pull back and watch your face become blissed out. “C'mon, sweet girl. Cum for me. On my fingers, yeah?”

The sweat beaded at your hairline drips down the side of your face and sticks to your ear. One of your shaky hands lifts up to wipe it away, but when you place it back on the counter your hand is seized by his unoccupied one. And maybe that’s what does it for you – or maybe it’s the sweet kiss he places on your knuckles, or the slippery rub of his thumb against your clit. 

Whatever it may be, you throw your head back and pant into the air, contracting and clenching around nothing, shuddering as pleasurable shivers wrack your body. Your chest heaves with it, and he watches with his mouth agape – transfixed by the sight of you. He stops rubbing when your hips begin to twitch and your legs begin to tremble, whimpers bordering on desperate. 

“Ready to talk now?” He asks gently, kissing your inner thigh. 

You wrinkle your nose, lips pursing. It takes you a few minutes to gather your thoughts and straighten yourself up, but he stays beside you patiently and presses his lips to your leg. Just enough to let you know he’s there, but not enough to overwhelm you. 

“I was… jealous. And I know I shouldn’t be and I know it’s a… toxic emotion, or whatever, but I didn’t like how she acted around you. Like she thought she had you wrapped around her finger.”

“And…?” He presses, remembering the therapy sessions you’ve been regularly attending. You huff in response, crossing your arms childishly. 

“And I’ll work on processing my emotions more _efficiently_. I promise.”

“Good girl.” Another kiss to the side of your knee and he rises to his feet, fully planning to spend the rest of the day with you when you catch sight of your reflection in the silver toaster opposite you. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” you mumble, eyes going wide with disbelief, **“There’s not enough makeup in the world to cover up these hickeys, what did you _do_** **to me?"**

He simply beams. 


	5. bubblegum b****

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompts: 2. “Bend over, I’m not kidding.” + 21. “Don’t hold back, baby.“

You’ve had too much sugar and Steve’s been gone for almost 2 months on a mission in the assback of Bolivia – that’s enough to explain the giggly demeanour with which you greet him. 

Your lips taste like jelly beans and lollipops and artificial strawberry – Natasha winces apologetically as you barrel towards him, legs winding around his waist and arms wrapped around his neck before he can actually comprehend that you’re on him. Still, he’s quick to hold you up and hold you close, his baby. 

"She was a little down the past few days,” she explains, smiling. “I got her some candy to cheer her up.”

 _Some candy_. Even _you_ don’t agree with that, snorting against his skin. 

Natasha wanders off after patting his arm and welcoming him back, leaving him with his arms and heart full. It felt good to have you in his arms again. He wasn’t one for being dramatic – usually – but the last few days had been terrible. It was the home stretch, of course, the last few days before he saw you again, but they were the _worst_. He’d practically been burning a hole into the ground with all the impatient pacing he was doing. 

So he revels in the weight of you in his arms – so much so, in fact, that he doesn’t bother putting you down again. He carries you all the way to his room, through the elevator and through the common area, plops you down on his bed while he goes to shower. He’d fully been planning to get dinner and cuddle until you both fell asleep, except… 

He’s rinsing the shampoo from his hair when you slip in, already undressed, smile giddy and bright. You step on into the shower and immediately slot yourself against the back of him. 

“I missed you,” you whine against his shoulder. “Pay attention to me.”

And that’s _another_ thing about the candy. Get too much of it in you and you’re as far gone as a drunk person. The filter between your brain and your mouth clocks out early. Anything you’d be too embarrassed to say normally is said as easily as your ABCs. 

“I was gonna, sweetheart,” Steve says, laughing gently. “I thought you’d appreciate it if I washed up first, though.”

“Your bedroom’s lonely without you.”

“Bolivia is lonely without you too.”

You hum and the sound reverberates through his skin, sending shivers down his spine even in the humidity of the shower. One of the hands on his chest relocates to his abdomen – and then lower, just above his–

“I wanna fuck, Stevie.”

He inhales shakily, licking his lips. You’ll have him half hard within the minute if you keep on doing what you’re doing; kissing his sore shoulder and scraping your acrylics over his chest. Even the press of you against his back, all wet and warm and still smelling vaguely of your perfume, makes him swallow. 

2 months. Two whole _fucking_ months. 

“You gotta ask nicely for that, sweetheart.”

You giggle quietly, like you still can’t believe that he’s here, that you’re holding him. Truth be told, he can’t believe it either. Some part of him thinks he might wake up to that dreary, cracked ceiling and threadbare mattress. 

“ _Please_. There.”

Good as he’s gonna get, ain’t it? 

You’re still beaming when he turns and picks you up and pins you up against the wall, immediately setting to work on bruising those lips of his. With one hand curled into his blond locks and the other grasping his hand on your waist, you’re perfectly content. Until you’re not, and you begin shifting and wriggling impatiently.

“ _C'mon_.”

“Y'know,” he begins setting you back down, “If I hadn’t been gone for two months…”

He wouldn’t even _think_ to let you get your own way so easily. But it has been two months and he can’t deny that you’re fucking adorable, bowing your head to the crook of his neck, tittering in delight when he places a hand on your back and attempts to bend you over. 

But you absolutely _refuse_. 

“ **Bend over, I’m not kidding**.” But he’s laughing himself, fueled by your own candy-induced exhilaration. 

You grasp his hand tightly, looking over your shoulder and blinking through the steady downpour of water. “But I wanna see you, Stevie. I like seeing your face.”

His heart swells and soars. Sweet as the candy you’ve eaten, even if you won’t admit it to anyone. “Okay, sweetheart. Another time, huh?" 

(Truth is, you could’ve given him any excuse and he would’ve listened. It’s your pleasure as much as it is his, right?) 

So he hauls you up again, legs ‘round his waist and hands hanging loosely from his shoulders. He affectionately nudges away the wet hair from your face with the tip of his nose, pecking your cheekbone. 

"Don’t think I’ll be able to go slow,” he warns you, almost _purring_ low in his throat as he gets the first feel of you against him; velvet warm and sweetly sticky. “’s been too long." 

"I don’t want you to.” And then, smile glinting mischievously: “ **Don’t hold back, baby,** yeah?" 

Simultaneous groans fill the humid air when he first enters you. It burns pleasantly, makes you claw at his back and smush your face against his shoulder and just shiver as he takes you. 

You missed this: the feeling of his muscle underneath your hands, the scratchiness of his beard on your neck, the feeling of being _stuffed_. Even the warmth he exhibits makes your stomach turn pleasantly–

His hand grasps your whole jaw and turns you to him. 

"You like seeing me?” He grunts. “You keep your eyes on me, then, darling.”

Yes. You missed this _tremendously_. 


	6. sober thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompts: 7. “I like it when you call me a drunk whore.” 19. “That’s what I am, right? Your cock slut?”

“You know, you’re not 21 yet.”

“I _knooooooooooooow_ –” You break off into a fit of giggles, going slack in his arms. “But – but _Peter–_ " 

"If Peter jumped off a cliff would you?" 

"Probably, _dad_ – hey, hey, hey, this isn’t my _room–_!" 

The elevator is large enough that when you begin to flop around like a fish you don’t hit the walls – and, peering in the mirrored walls at your cute little wiggling, Steve can’t help but laugh. If he wasn’t so amused he’d probably give you a spank to still you. 

…You’d probably like it, but still. 

“I _know_ it isn’t, baby.” He must sound so patronising, talking in that bright, simple voice that appeals to your fuzzy mind but he genuinely thinks you’re the most adorable thing he’s seen in years and this is _really_ the only way his body will let him talk to you while you’re in this state. It’s a natural reflex. “It’s an elevator.”

“God, I love elevators.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! They just… take you places! That’s so cool, Steve. How did you _survive_ back in the olden days—?” You gasp then, perking up as your attention is grabbed by FRIDAY announcing your arrival to the residential floor — and then, seemingly tired out by your own constant chatter, you simply resign yourself to becoming deadweight again and hanging over his shoulder. 

The common area is empty, of course, because it’s both a Saturday night and one of few days off, and you make sure to announce it as soon as he steps out of the elevator. "I miss Natasha, Stevie. Where’s she gone? Her conditioner smells like cherries, did you know that? I borrowed it once but don’t tell her that, okay?" 

“I won’t, promise—”

“Hey, we’re passing my _rooooooooom—_!” He doesn’t even have to look to know that you’re making grabby hands for your door as you pass; he feels your body lurch up and away, and if wasn’t so _genetically enhanced_ you might’ve sent him tumbling.

"You can sleep in my room, darling.” He can look after you better if you’re closer, and he has no doubt that you would’ve made him stay with you in your bedroom _anyway_ — _and_ you like his bed better; you say it’s because his thread count is higher but you had admitted (while on the brink of sleep, mind you) that you like how it smells like him. “You wanna shower?" 

"Mmmmm… no.”

“You sure?”

“ _Yes_!” Another set of wiggles, and he sees as he passes another polished wall panel that you’ve made it your goal to look over his shoulder as much as possible. “Your _hand_ is on my _butt,_ Stevie!" 

"I know, darling.”

“I’m gonna tell Tony and Tony’s gonna be _maaaaaaad_ ~”

Yes; it’s both a Saturday night and one of few days off and that is why both you _and_ Peter had gotten utterly and absolutely _smashed_. With Peter turning 21 a few months ago and his sudden desire to test his own limits it must’ve seemed like a good idea! Buy as much alcohol as possible and see how fast he can get drunk and back to sober with his spidey-genes. Steve remembers doing something along the same lines when he was younger – as you can imagine, it didn’t turn out too well. 

However, you do _not_ have spidey genes. That much is obvious when, after making the journey to his room and bending to lay you gently on his bed, you quite unceremoniously flop down like a limp piece of string. 

"I like your bed,” you sigh, laying face down on his duvet. “Smells like… beard." 

"Beard?” He repeats, grinning. God, he wishes he had his phone to record you with. You’re adorable when you’re whiny and nonsensical like this. Grabby, too. 

“Mm.” You reach up towards him as he flits about his room, removing your shoes and your jeans for a t-shirt of his, and slipping on his pyjamas in lieu of the uncomfortable denim and Henley he’d been wearing. “You know what _else_ I like?" 

He knows that voice. Teasing and drawling and punctuated with a sweet little laugh that makes his stomach flip and his heart pound. That voice would be the death of him, mark his words. 

” **I liked that time when… you called me a drunk whore**. When we were – y’know, doin’ the dirty.“

He knew that _something_ was coming but he hadn’t prepared for _this–_

"I’ve never called you that,” he says playfully, swiping the blankets over your face momentarily. He shoves down his shock at the vulgarity – because yeah, he’s assimilating to 21st century culture but it still throws him off-guard when his pretty little baby comes out with something so _dirty_. He ignores that pressure in his groin that’s fighting to make itself known – but maybe if he just pretends it doesn’t exist he won’t pop a boner? He doesn’t want to go to sleep with that, and he sure as hell isn’t going to try it on with you while you’re not in your right mind.

“You haven’t? Hm. I guessed I imagined that.” Your brow furrows cutely and your nose wrinkles as a makeup wipe is brushed over your face, due in part to your own confusion and also because the wipes smell like roses and drunk you, apparently, does _not_ like roses. “Bleh. These smell like old ladies.”

“You picked ‘em out yourself.”

“I make bad decisions.”

Another 2 or 3 wipes and the majority of your makeup is off — he doesn’t even _try_ to coerce you into washing your face, he knows damn well you’re not getting off his bed until tomorrow afternoon. 

He settles into bed beside you — noticing that instinctive way that you wriggle underneath his left arm and clutch his right in your hands. God, he loves you. 

“I _really_ can’t believe you’ve never called me that!”

“You’ve got _quite_ the imagination on you, darling.”

“I do, don’t I?” Your eyes are already beginning to close. “But _maybe_ tomorrow it’ll become a reality.” And then, as if poked with another bout of mischief, your eyes open and your lips press to his cheek– “Because **that’s what I am, right? Your cock slut**?" 

Steve practically chokes on his own saliva, cheeks reddening and mouth drying–

”_____–" 

You cackle, settling back down. “Okay, okay. Bedtime, I get it.”

(Steve _does_ go to bed with a boner.)


	7. the witching hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompts: 27. “Oh, the things I’d do to that pretty mouth.” 20. “I’m really hard/wet and I’m gonna die if you don’t do something about it ASAP.” 60. “That’s a lot of sass for someone who ruined my bedsheets and still hasn’t apologized.”

_He’s dreaming of sunny, warm beaches and sand-covered toes when he feels it. A tapping on his arm, the sharpness of too-long nails on his skin. Dream-you looks up at him, batting your eyelashes as you lean up._

_“Steve."_

_"Hm…?”_

_“_ Steve _.”_

_“I’m right here, sweetheart."_

_"Steve. Steve. Steeeeeeve._ Stevie _!”_

Groaning, Steve blinks his sleep away. The ceiling is dark, though half illuminated by a dull, yellow glow from the desk lamp across the room. He inhales – perfume, sweet and slightly spicy. 

“Steve,” you whisper harshly. 

“Wha– what’s wrong, sweetheart?" 

You shift until you’ve arched over his chest, hands splayed against his torso and eyes just as sleepy as he feels. "Uhm… Well…" 

The hesitance in your voice sparks alarm in him, and he immediately finds himself sitting up, frowning down at you. "Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

You bite your lip and grasp your hand in his, warm and soft against him, and it’s with confusion that he watches as you guide it down, down, down, below the sheets and–

Oh. 

You grin up at him when he inhales sharply, fingers breaking away from your grip to explore on his own. You’re _unbelievably_ wet, dripping down against his sheets – no clothes to act as a barrier. He had taken them all off earlier, had made love to you against these very blankets, and it looks like you’re ready to go again. At – he risks a glance over your shoulder – 3 AM. 

**“I’m really wet, and I think I’m gonna die if you don’t do something about it ASAP.”**

Steve thinks about the mission you’re going on in exactly 10 hours. He thinks about how tired you’ll be if you stay up for much longer – he thinks about how distracted you’ll be if you _don’t_ cum right now. 

Well, he’s got no choice, does he? 

“Fuck, sweetheart–” And you melt against him, sighing quietly at the deep grumble of his voice. You’re so slippery and soft and velvet-smooth, hot beneath the covers and just _thrumming_ with energy. Just what had you been dreaming of? 

He asks you just that, and you quickly turn bashful. You duck your head to the crook of his neck, panting softly as his fingers prod at your entrance. “Ngh… Not important…”

“Really?” He presses his fingers up and up until they reach that little spot that makes you gasp and writhe. “Seems pretty important if it got you drippin’ all over my sheets.”

“N-not really – oh, right there, _fuck–_ _what the fuck–_!”

And you’re staring at him, livid, because he’s pulled his fingers out of you and he’s just looking at you all expectant like a teacher who’s asked you a very important question. 

“What the fuck?” You say. “Please don’t make me beg, I’m too tired.”

“I’m not _that_ mean–" 

(Oh, yes. Yes, he can be, and he sees that in the unimpressed look you shoot him.)

"Tell me what your dream was about, and I’ll make you cum.”

You grunt in annoyance, very obviously torn between your need to have his hand between your legs and your own embarrassment. “But…" 

"No buts, young lady.”

“God, Steve, it was your stealth suit!” You burst out, whiny. His eyebrows shoot up. “Your stealth suit. You kept it on while we fucked, okay? Apparently that turns sleep-me on.”

Now _that’s_ an image that he likes. The idea of you, bare and wiggling against him as he takes you in his stealth suit… He understands the mess you made. 

“Interesting." 

"Don’t make a big deal out of it,” you huff, “The body reacts to dreams unconsciously, okay, so–" 

He wants to get his hands on you again – and you want the same, evidently, because when he raises his quickly drying digits to your lips you open obediently and take them into your mouth, gently suckling around him. _Fuck_. The trust you place in him is almost as sexy as the act itself. 

**“Oh, the things I’d do to that pretty mouth.”** He’s aware that he’s staring at you, mouth agape like a fool, but the sight of you is just _purely_ and _utterly_ erotic. “You’re so pretty, baby.”

You hum nonsensically, looking up at him in that pointed way that says _c'mon, Stevie_. Always so impatient. He makes a reminder to teach you a lesson in patience for the thousandth time. 

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers from your mouth. “I’ll take care of you, sweets. Don’t worry.”

“You always take care of me,” you moan softly, “Always, Stevie." 

So sweet, his girl. As much as you were the sassy little brat he was so fond of, you’re just as soft as the giant teddy bear you hugged to sleep when he was away. Even your hands on his arm are unbearably gentle, nails barely scraping his skin as he circles your clit with his thumb.

Your legs twitch as his fingers re-enter you, gasps short and quick against his shoulder and chest on the brink of heaving with each breath. God, he’s good with his fingers – so thick and long inside you, almost as good as the real thing. But not quite. 

Your head falls back. "Oh, f-fuck.”

“You’re close,” Steve notes, eyebrows raising. “That dream really got you wound up, huh?" 

Your lips spread in a cheeky – albeit tired – smirk. "It’s you. How couldn’t it?" 

"Damn straight.”

It only takes a few minutes more, really. His pace remains relentless, fingers nudging the spot inside you and thumb hammering back and forth against your clit – you’re so wet that he easily slides back and forth over the sensitive little button, and with a cry of his name and a shudder you squeeze around his fingers. And Jesus, he wishes it was around him, but not tonight. 

Your toes flex back and forth, your nails pinch at the skin of his forearm – but by God, you’re fucking beautiful like this. Still half-tired and so far gone, eyes dazed and half-lidded. Nobody else got to see you like this, just him. And what an honour it is. 

“Maybe I should break out the stealth suit soon?” Steve says, grinning as his fingers slip from you. You’re still panting, skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat – but you find it in yourself to scoff, slapping his arm weakly. 

“Shut up." 

**“That’s a lot of sass for someone who ruined my bedsheets and still hasn’t apologized.”**

"It’s not my fault you look good in your suit!” You argue – a whine in your throat as he rises from his bed. “Stevie, can’t we just–”

“No, no, no–” And he scoops you up, plops you on the chair across from his bed so that he can remove the sheets and replace them. “I’m not lettin’ you sleep on dirty sheets.”

“Even if I’m the one that dirtied them?” You say, smiling dopily. “You know, some would say that you let me get away with too much–”

And you yawn, eyes squinting and entire body shivering–

And yeah. Maybe he does – but he dips his head to kiss your temple and pulls you up by the wrist, watches as you snuggle back into his duvet with a wholesome smile that makes his heart swell. “I think I let you get away with just enough, sweetheart.”

“Mm…” And then your eyes snap open, zeroing in on the hardness between his legs. “Stevie! You don’t want me to–?" 

"Nah. I’m good, sweets. Get on to sleep, yeah? You’ve got a big day tomorrow." 

And he pulls you close and shuts his eyes: no room for argument. 


	8. the boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompts: 55. “I’m bored. Come over and sit on my dick.” 47. “We’ve roleplayed that six times already, come up with something new.” 49. “I ended up in the ER after an orgy once, wanna hear the story?”

It’s one of those long, dragging days where you’re _constantly_ looking for something to do. Nothing to watch on TV, nothing that catches your eye on Sephora, the gym is boring, it’s too cold to swim, and _Stevie, you have to entertain me!_

 _Stevie_ has got a pile of reports to have handed in by the end of the week. _Stevie_ has no time to pay attention to you, and in your eyes that’s a complete and utter tragedy. So you sit and pout on the fancy leather sofa in his office, arms folded and legs held up in the air out of sheer _boredom_. You’ve been throwing your phone up and down for the hell of it, occasionally speaking – but Steve only hums and nods, eyes not lifting from his papers.

“I think I’m gonna shave my head,” you say casually, watching his reaction. 

“That’s nice, darling.”

“And I’ve realised I quite like face tattoos…”

“Really? Cool.”

“ **I ended up in the ER after an orgy once, wanna hear the story?** ”

“Nic— _what_?” Steve’s head shoots up, eyes narrowed and mouth open, and it’s obvious that he’s only now registering what you’d said. He lets the word-stuffed paper in his hand float to his desk, the tip of his ballpoint pen pointing towards you. “Very funny.”

“It was the only way to get your attention!” You whine, lazing back again. “C’mon, Stevie. They’re not due till the end of the week! Can’t you just…” You arch your back as you stretch, sighing in that deliberately breathless way that makes his jaw tick— “…take a break?”

“Darling, I can’t—” And it takes every ounce of self-control to exercise that restraint because he’s been working since breakfast and he hasn’t taken one single measly break and you’re wearing that skirt he loves— 

“You _can_ ,” you badger, wiggling until you’re sitting up again. “I’ll even help you finish your reports! Promise.” 

No, you won’t. You’ll sit on his lap and _say_ that you’re gonna help and then you’ll get bored and just fall asleep on him — which doesn’t sound too bad, all things considered.

“Whaddya want me to do, huh?” He asks, folding his arms. (He knows _exactly_ what you want him to do — but if you’re gonna get your own way he may as well draw it out a bit. Can’t have you knowing that he’s completely whipped, right?)

(…as if it’s not obvious.)

“I don’t know!” You huff. “Maybe, like, I don’t know, call me over? All, **_I’m bored. Come over and sit on my dick_** _—_ ”

Steve splutters a laugh at the way you lower your voice and furrow your brows — a bad impression of him, complete with a frown — and you can only follow, giggling, though you do make an effort to pout a bit, crossing your arms. “Don’t laugh!”

He’s still smiling as he rises from his seat, rounding his desk and kneeling on the ground before you. His hands find your bare legs — soft and smooth and glistening with that glitter-filled lotion you loved so much — and with one tug, your legs are wrapped around his torso. 

“It’s yours, darling. But if you want it, you have to ask.” 

_Sigh_. Your worst nightmare. _Asking_ for something.

Your eyes narrow. **“We’ve roleplayed that six times already, come up with something new.”**

He’s always telling you that your behaviour will get you in trouble — and you don’t think you’ve ever been more aware of it than when the amusement slides off his face, replaced by a facade of cool aloofness. In your head your entire thought process is _yikes_ , but you also know that the sudden throbbing between your legs hasn’t made itself known just for the hell of it.

So _maybe_ you get off on annoying Steve. Who doesn’t?

One hand that had been on your leg shoots up to grasp your jaw firmly — catching you so off-guard with its swiftness that you gasp, clutching at his wrist.

“Wanna say that again?” 

The whimper you let out when he brushes your lips against his is _pitiful_. And he almost takes mercy on you — almost — just because you sound so far gone and he’s done virtually _nothing_. But at the end of the day, you need the control as much as he does — so he tightens his grip, steels his gaze and looks you right in those doe-eyes of yours.

“I asked you a question.”

“No,” you breathe, swallowing. “No.”

He hums. “No, what?”

“No, daddy.”

“Atta girl.”


	9. the relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked: So i know this has sorta already been done in a chapter, but, if you feel like answering: how does Steve react to when his brat gets triggered by something like smth on TV or someone saying some shit or smth?

It’s after a two-hour long working lunch and the team has gathered in the common area. Natasha’s still got her red bottoms on and Wanda’s blazer hasn’t left her shoulders; Bucky’s got his suspenders hanging down around his hips and Sam’s just foregone them completely, leaving them a pile of snakes on the coffee table. 

The TV has been playing for the past twenty minutes but no-one’s actually watching except you and Steve. Everyone has a phone, after all, and Steve has that pet peeve where he can’t stand looking at his phone while there’s something on TV. You’re happy to slip off your own duck-egg blue heels and pull the bobby pins from your hair, cuddled up to his side on one of many loveseats. You’re not paying much attention to the screen either – Steve’s chest is the perfect laying spot, after all. 

The TV show cuts to another scene – a young girl, one of the main characters, crying, bent over with a belt being snapped onto her thighs. And you feel yourself shoot up, limbs suddenly shaky, and you’re hit with the sudden urge to just _puke_. 

You’ve had anxiety attacks before. You’ve had terrible, terrible anxiety attacks where you felt like you were going to _die_. But they were when you were a kid, when you were weak and vulnerable and still living under your parent’s roof. Not knowing what brought this on made it all the more terrifying. 

One second you’re sitting beside Steve, the next you’re bursting into the kitchen, gasping for breath as your knees hit the tile. You screw your eyes shut and press your forehead to the cool floor, shutting out the concerned whispers from behind the door. Your chest feels like it’s closing up with every passing second.

You don’t know what triggered it. You’ve seen worse than that scene with no repercussions, you’ve even been in contact with your parents… _Contact_ being a stiff nod when you saw each other at a charity ball 2 years ago, before leaving as soon as possible. 

You don’t know what it is. And you don’t like that one bit. 

“Sweetheart?” He’s speaking so cautiously, like you’re a spooked mare. You hate it. You’re not _weak_ anymore. You’re stronger now. _You’re stronger now. You’re_ … “I’m gonna come closer, alright?" 

"They fucked me up!” You’re sobbing, and you can’t even remember when it started. “What the fuck, Steve! They – they–!" 

"You’re not fucked up. You’re just panicking, okay? You’re safe here. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. We care about you. You’re safe.” A hand, so warm and large and grounding, runs the length of your spine. 

“I don’t know what it was,” you fret, raising your neck until you’re sat on your heels. “I don’t – I-I was fine, and then–" 

You trail off in an incomprehensible set of blubbering, chest heaving so quickly that Steve grows more concerned than he already is – your hands reach for his forearms, nails digging into his skin, but he hardly minds. He’s never seen you so dishevelled. He feels like every bone in his body has been turned to fight or flight, prepared to strike out at what it was that had set you off. 

_What had set you off_ was the couple probably holidaying in their vacation home in the Maldives. And it would take a while to get to them – so for the time being, Steve busies himself with making you feel as safe as possible. 

The weighted blanket you favour is on the other side of the wing and you don’t look like you’re prepared to let him go anytime soon, so he pulls you into his lap, a hand crowding your head to the crook of his neck and the other against your back, pressing you tightly against him. 

"Count with me, okay? One, two, three, four…" 

You don’t start until he reaches 29, murmuring quietly against his collarbone. Voice is still heavy with tears and you haven’t released your death-grip on him yet, but you’re slowly yet surely beginning to calm. 

"I’m sorry,” you whimper suddenly. “I don’t know what happened…" 

"That’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself. I’m just glad you’re coming down, sweets.”

“I was making so much progress,” you say, voice miserably small. “I thought I was getting better.”

Steve’s healed from a lot. Being ripped from his time, being thrown back into war, constantly surrounded by things he doesn’t understand. But he’d healed, he’d adapted, and if there’s one thing he knows… 

“Your progress isn’t linear, sweetheart. There’ll be relapses, and they’ll be hard, but you’re strong enough to get through them and you got family all around you who are willing to help. Okay?" 

You nod, sniffling. "Okay." 

"That’s my strong girl.”

(All in all, he knows how to deal with panic attacks. He makes sure you feel safe and secure, either by holding you really closely and tightly or by giving you your weighted blanket. He tries to steady your breathing and reassure you that you’re okay, that you’re not broken for experiencing anxiety or getting triggered. 

If your anxiety was brought on by a specific person he’ll whisk you away to a quiet place to help you out – and then he’ll go _talk_ to whoever was being so rude.)


	10. the stealth suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bambifatale asked: I'll be the one to ask. What about that stealth suit kink? 👀

You don’t know what it is about it that drives you mad. In reality it’s simply a piece of fabric – multiple fabrics, kevlar and leather and whatever else, you’re not bothered with figuring it out. Dark navy, verging on black, padding on the shoulders and elbows and knees. Steve Roger’s stealth suit is the simplest on the team and _yet_ –

Okay, so maybe you do know what it is that makes your mind go fuzzy. Maybe it’s the firm, stern way he holds himself, maybe it’s the way he rolls up the sleeves to his elbows, maybe it’s the fact that the entire suit is a symbol of his time as a war criminal – and what can you say? You’ve always had a thing for _bad_. And Steve Rogers wears bad _real_ nicely.

“Fuck me,” you breathe, sitting up in bed. There’s a mischievous glint in Steve’s eyes and – not for the first time – you wonder if you really are the bad influence. “W-why didn’t you get changed?" 

A mission in Argentina which apparently called for Nomad and not Captain America. A mission which he’d officially returned from as of 15 minutes ago. And if your last remaining brain cells serve you correctly, Nomad is the one that stands before you. Not Captain Rogers, not _Stevie_. 

"Thought you _liked_ my stealth suit, sweetheart. You want me to take it off?" 

No. God no. A pathetic whimper gets caught on your throat – the smile he gives you is nothing short of wolfish.

“No, I didn’t think so.” He moves slow and sure, power rippling under every muscle, and you _genuinely_ feel your mouth watering. You feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs – though being conditioned to find a ruggedly handsome Steve Rogers attractive doesn’t seem like the worst fate. “You remember that one dream you had before?”

As if you could forget the image of Steve fucking your brains out – you, completely naked, him in his stealth suit. You’d woken up at 2 AM, soaking, and he’d had to take care of you with his fingers – but he’d also teased you relentlessly in the morning, so. Pick your poison.

You clear your throat, feeling _uncharacteristically_ timid as he looms over you. What a coincidence that you’re now at crotch-height. “Y-yeah.”

A hand pets your hair gently – and you’ll admit, you practically preen at his affection, letting your chin be tilted back seconds later to look up at him. And God, he really, definitely, is not Stevie. Eyes too dark, grip on your jaw too tight – but it’s delicious, and when he opens his mouth–

“Well? Hop to it, darlin’. I don’t got all night.”


	11. sex pollen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked: Ok but..... brat/ Steve one of h th em sex pollen? Maybe? Oop

When they’d said _immediate medical attention,_ he’d dropped everything. Quite literally – the weights in his hands had hit the floor so strongly that the ground seemed to shake, but that could’ve just been the vibrations of each step he took. 

The elevator doesn’t travel quickly enough – he sprints down the stairs, hops over the railing to bolt through the doors and towards the quinjet steadily hovering over the ground. He’s already waiting anxiously by the time the bird sits on the ground, unsteadily still. 

He’s expecting blood. Blood, and broken bones. Bruises and fractures and something _terrible_ but–

You’re panting and writhing uncomfortably as they roll you out on a stretcher, throwing medical lingo over his head. A fine layer of sweat decorates your forehead, your suit unzipped until just below your collarbone. His brow furrows, feet moving along the medical team unconsciously. 

“Captain!" 

He reaches over and grasps your hand in his – you make a low, pained sound in your throat and his heart lurches. 

"What happened to her?” He demands lowly. His eyes are calculating, scouring your body for any sign of injury; but nothing. No cuts, no bruises, no oddly bent limbs. Something chemical, maybe. 

“Greenhouse in Oslo,” one medic says hurriedly. She’s frantically trying to take your pulse and record your blood sugar at the same time, and she curses seconds later in a way that doesn’t make him feel any better. “She inhaled the spores of some – some – _plant_. We’ve taken a cutting and there’s a team scoping out the place–" 

He doesn’t _care_ about that. 

"And what about _her_?" 

"For now, it’s not too serious,” another chimes in. “Accelerated heartbeat, excessive sweating, hot and cold flashes – we’ll need to get to the lab to run more tests–" 

"Steve?” Your eyes clear for a second, and in that second, they find him. “Steve, I’m – I'm–" 

"It’s okay,” he assures you. “You don’t gotta talk, sweetheart.”

The doors to the back entrance of the Compound burst open, the ride to the elevator rushed and blurred. Soon you emerge into the medbay, and he’s pushed back to the edge of the room as more doctors crowd you. 

One seeks him out in the chaos. “Captain Rogers, we’re gonna need you to leave.”

“But–”

“We’re doing everything we can to help her,” the doctor interjects, “We can do more when you’re not looming over our heads.” And then, softer: “She’s gonna be okay, Cap.”

Steve paces outside your room for an hour. Calls Tony in Malibu, Natasha, Bucky and Sam in Vienna, Bruce in Seoul. He even rings up Scott. He checks up on the team in Oslo – pulls rank to get tri-hourly updates on whatever the fuck it was you’d inhaled – and then he paces some more, for God knows how long. 

Because this isn’t like every other time you’d gotten hurt, where he could’ve taken out his anger on whatever no-good lowlife had hurt you. He couldn’t go slash at the godforsaken _plant_. It felt like every nerve in his body was buzzing, desperate for some outlet–

“Erm, Captain Rogers?” It’s a timid looking young man, hands clasped in front of him. Steve’s on him like a moth to a flame, shoulders squared and jaw clenched and if he wasn’t so distracted he’d realise that he was unintentionally putting the fear of God into him. 

“What is it? Is she okay–?" 

"She’s fine. Well, as fine as one in her condition can be–" 

"What does that _mean_?" 

"The spores that she inhaled were – for lack of better wording – a sort of… aphrodisiac.”

His mind blanks. _Aphrodisiac_?

“Completely inelegant and – and _unrefined_ , of course,” the man hurries, “and the exact purpose is unknown, but still… She needs to be… er, satiated.”

An embarrassed blush spreads across the doctor’s cheeks. 

“Satiated?” Steven echoes, like he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He can feel his ears becoming hot, and his neck following. “A–are you – are you sure?" 

"It seems to be the only way, Captain.” The doctor clears his throat, pressing a hand to his warm cheek. “Uhm, we’ll vacate the room. The floor, too, if you want–" 

"Floor’s good.”

“O-of course.”

You’re more attentive by time Steve enters the room. As promised, the floor’s been completely and utterly empty – luckily most of the rest of the medical staff on floor 3 were out and about, so there was enough space to fit another crew downstairs. 

“Steve!” You sob out. You’ve been changed into a medical gown, and it rides up with each irritated twist of your hips against the table. “I’m so – fucking – _warm_ –" 

You cut yourself off then, head tilted back against the table and eyes screwed shut so pitifully that he genuinely has to restrain himself from surging forward and taking you into his arms. 

_Increased sensitivity, hot and cold sweats._

"I know, sweetheart,” he coos. “I know. I’m gonna help you, you hear?" 

"I think I’m gonna die,” you whimper instead, fingers clawing at your stomach. “Everything – everything’s so sensitive, Stevie, I can’t take it–" 

“You’re not gonna die,” he assures you. Gently, carefully, he tries to peel your gown up and over your body. Even the feeling of his fingers against the tops of your thighs makes you moan unabashedly, and he winces. “I’m gonna help you out.”

“How? _How_?”

“Doctors’ said we need to – well, satiate you.”

“Fucking _satiate_?” You’re clearly far gone and yet your incredulity still shines through your voice. Steve chortles, tossing the gown aside. You exhale sharply as your skin is exposed to the cool air, and the super-soldier does the same as your legs part for a moment and he’s greeted by the sight of you dripping. Absolutely and utterly _dripping_ – almost unnaturally so, and he feels his pants tighten in response. “I’m not a fucking chocolate craving!”

“Give ‘em some slack,” Steve replies, pulling his own pants down. “Kid looked like he was gonna piss himself. Having to tell Captain America to fuck his girl healthy again.”

“…maybe not the worst treatment, if I’m being honest – God, _fuck_ –!”

All he did was brush over your nipple with his hand, and you’re grasping his wrist, back arching off the table. “ _Ngh_ – fuck–”

“You that sensitive, sweetheart?” 

(It’s fascinating, really. Don’t get him wrong, he hates seeing you in pain – can’t stand it, really, but you’re so _unbelievably_ responsive that he can barely wrap his mind around it. He doesn’t even want to _know_ what this plant was supposed to be used for.)

“Fuck, yes.”

“All you need from me is a few touches and you’ll be there, huh?”

You say nothing – your mouth agape, toes curling because he’s grasped your breast in his hand, squeezing firmly and brushing his thumb back and forth over your nipple. He watches – utterly transfixed – as you begin to get closer and closer, all the tell-tale signs of your orgasm blossoming far too soon: breaths becoming short and quick, chest heaving, stomach tightening. And then–

“Steve–!” You sound surprised yourself. The cry you let out is one of pure and utter relief – and he’s not too shocked to see tears dripping down your cheeks as you shudder and convulse. He murmurs softly as you ride out your pleasure, hand drifting softly and lovingly over your stomach, and he’s taken aback when it simply continues on and on and on until you’re literally _sobbing_.

And then the intensity is gone, and you’re heaving with it, eyes threatening to flutter shut but hand still gripping his tightly.

“Hey, hey, there we are,” Steve mutters, eyebrows furrowing worriedly as you just continue to cry. Your bottom lip trembles at his words.

“It’s not enough,” you wail. “It’s too much but it’s not enough. I’m gonna go crazy. I’m gonna – I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“‘Nough of that talk, sweetheart,” he says. “We just need to… keep at it, okay? I’ll take care of you.”

He slips his hands under your butt and tugs you to the edge of the table. You curse when your legs wind around his waist and brush around the denim of his jeans; you flat out groan when you lean yourself up on your elbows and blink blearily at the sight of him pumping himself to full hardness. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever needed you more,” you say, deadpan. “I feel like I could cum just looking at you.”

If he was a less merciful man he would’ve tried to test your claims. But as it stands, Steve Rogers is both a gentleman and inconceivably in love, and he’d snap his shield in half with his own hands before drawing out your torment any longer. He grasps his cock in one hand and levels his other on your hip – and with a shaky exhale he begins to press into you. You don’t resist at any moment. He slips in easily – _too_ easily, almost – with the amount of slick that had gathered on you, and has to take a moment to calm both you and him down. It seems that you’d almost forgotten how to breathe.

And Steve? He’s trying not to bust a load because you’re so fucking _wet_ and _warm_ but this needs to be drawn out. His recovery period is quick but not as quick as you need. 

“Calm down, _____.”

“I’m _trying_ to,” you whine, arching your neck upwards when he hangs his own to kiss you. “ _Hm_ … You’re just… big.”

His answer is a gentle buck of his hips that sends you keening. And then another, and another, and another, until he’s thrusting into you steadily, the slapping of skin and squelching of your pussy mingling with your cries, and for the hundredth time that night he’s extremely glad the floor was vacated – because even _he’s_ blushing at the noise, and he’s far from the innocent man who’d been freed from the ice years ago. 

You begin to move your hips in tandem, a hand covering your eyes as if in disbelief of the pleasure wracking your body – the other presses itself to his stomach like glue and refuses to budge, occasionally tightening its grip to scrape his skin with your acrylics. 

“That better?” Steve’s the one grunting now. His own hands grasp your hips tightly, angling them upwards for your benefit as much as his. 

“Uh huh. Y-yeah.” You sound so hard like you’re trying not to scream – he bends to kiss your forehead, still completely and utterly pitying his little girl. You deserve a reward after this. Something expensive and pink, something you’d like.

“Good girl.” And he continues on with his punishing pace, not chasing his own pleasure but actively seeking _yours_. Your clit is too sensitive to touch right now, and your breasts too after earlier. He simply has to rely on the feeling of him inside you and hope that it’s enough to–

“It’s – it’s coming again – I’m cumming, Steve, fuck–!” 

And you _squeal_. Your hips lift up and away from him, twisting back and forth in an effort to get away from the pleasure but he’s there inside you, guiding you through it, grounding you with a hand on the back of your head and one flat on your stomach. Your body is near slippery with sweat at this point, but he’s no better. The room’s boiling hot at this point, but he doesn’t mind. He’s never much liked the cold anyway. 

When your orgasm calms and ebbs away – after quite a while, mind you – you flop down to the table like a fish and swear up and down that you’re never going on a solo mission _again_.

“You’re gonna regret that later, honey.”

You grumble. “You try bein’ doped up on HYDRA sex drugs–”

So it _is_ helping. At least a little bit. The sass is coming back.

“–and being dicked down by a super-soldier.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass,” replies Steve. “Though I’m sure it’s very hard–”

“Yes, you are.”

“You don’t _sound_ very doped up anymore,” he teases, rolling his hips. “Maybe I should stop…?”

You level him with an unimpressed stare that says _we both know you won’t stop,_ and yeah, you’re right. He won’t – not until every trace of that freaky pollen is gone from your system and you’re so far gone you can’t remember your own name.

You’ll thank him for it later. 


End file.
